“I don’t believe a damned word of this fellow’s yarn. There is some sly juggling here!” ejaculated the Major as he drove back to the Hotel Binda. His brow was black as he descended, and it grew blacker still when he read a telegram from Euphrosyne Delande. He studied over the unwelcome news while he made a careful business toilet to visit the Credit Lyonnais. And a white rage shone out upon his handsome face as he learned that Justine was useless to him now. “Discharged without even a reward! Thrust out like a beggar without a word of warning.” “Justine on her way home. Passed through Paris last night. Can you not return?” The signature “Euphrosyne” was a guaranty of the unwelcome truth. Major Hawke swore a deep and bitter oath as he penned a telegram to the Swiss preceptress: “Coming to-night. Arrive to-morrow at ten o’clock. Keep all secret.” And he boldly signed the name “Alan Hawke” to that and to a message to Captain Anson Anstruther: “Delayed four days here by private business.” He raged as he hastily soliloquized: “I will at once present these drafts regularly through the Credit Lyonnais. I will go and get the whole story from Justine. I will pay off that tiger cat, Madame Louison, for her sneaking away. She fancies she has done with me now! Ah! By God! She thinks so? Wait! And this old Scotch saw-file! I’ll break him up! If I can only trace those stolen jewels to him, I’ll have them or send the old miser off in irons to a life transportation! I begin to see the whole game at last! And I swear that I’ll get to the girl if I have to carry her off!” He went down to the Credit Lyonnais in an elegant “mufti” garb, and depositing a thousand pounds sterling to his credit, left the four drafts for five thousand pounds each for collection, carelessly referring to Messrs. Grindlay & Co., of Delhi, London, and many other places, and mentioning the name of that eminent private native banker, money-lender, and jeweler, the well-known Ram Lal Singh. “He shall back his indorsement!” laughed Alan Hawke. With a lordly insouciance, Major Alan Hawke then strolled out of the great bank and deliberately arranged his line of future action while he was taking his ease at his inn. “First, to pick up all the threads of this queer intrigue through Justine. I must go back to her at Geneva. Then, to be sure that Berthe Louison is not repeating her cunning Delhi tricks with the dead man’s brother. She might frighten him. Then, armed at all points, I must hasten on to report to Anstruther. I must have him give me a short leave as soon as I can get it, but before I open my siege trenches I must develop all the enemy’s strength. What the devil is Berthe Louison up to now?”